The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real (19 page)

My attention was distracted by voices at the table behind us. “—'cause it's too crowded. Talkin' 'bout early parole—for sixty, maybe a hundred! Hear that, baby? Mama might be gettin' out early.”

I shifted in my seat, hoping I wasn't being obvious but wanting to see who was talking. A thirtyish brown woman with a young child on her lap leaned toward an older woman, graying, tired, across the table. A couple of other kids squirmed in the plastic chairs.

I was so busy eavesdropping, I jumped when a familiar voice said, “Hey. Didn't know you guys was comin' so soon.”

Becky Wallace, midtwenties, lean and wiry, stood with her fingers shoved into the front pockets of her tight jeans, her hair tucked inside a red bandana tied snugly around her head. The bandana startled me, because standing in front of us was the spitting image of the junkie who had terrorized the prayer group at knifepoint that night—tight jeans, jean jacket, red bandana—except no wraparound shades to cover her gray eyes, and the sallow skin had regained some healthy color.
“Bandana Woman,”
I'd called her, till we learned her name.

Yo-Yo unfolded herself and grabbed a nearby chair. “Hey, Becky. Sit.”

Becky acknowledged each of us as she lowered her lean body into the chair. “Yo-Yo . . . Flo . . . Jodi.” She looked Stu up and down. “You Leslie Stuart? The one who wrote me?”

“That's right.” Stu stuck her hand across the table.

Becky pulled her fingers out of her jean pocket and shook Stu's hand, squinting her eyes as though trying to recall Stu's face. “Was you at that prayer meetin' I busted up?”When Stu nodded, Becky cussed under her breath. “Huh. Don't remember—just that squinty-eyed lady I cut up . . . an' the big lady with the red 'fro, scared the hell out of me . . . an' that Denny guy who got me on the floor.” She glanced around the room. “He ain't with you guys this time?”

“Not today. He's a high school coach—got basket-ball games today.” I smiled. I'd have to tell Denny he was missed at the prison.

Becky shifted nervously in her seat, eyeing Stu again. “So. You said somethin' in yo' letter 'bout wantin' ta help me talk to my baby? How can ya do that?”

Stu was transformed. She leaned forward, forearms on the table, her hands clasped. “I just got rehired by the Department of Child and Family Services, the Rogers Park office. Don't know if I can get assigned to your case, but I could ask for it—if that's all right with you. But even if I don't get the case, I could check out that phone number you were given and see why you haven't been able to make contact with the foster parents. I'll try to set something up.”

Becky's eyes locked on to Stu's for a long moment before her eyes fell. “I'd like that. Like that a lot.” A tear slid down her cheek, which she brushed away impatiently, as if angry at the weakness it showed. “Hey, wanna thank you guys for sending me all that fancy hand cream and stuff for Christmas. That was nice, real nice.” She gave a little laugh. “Made my day, no joke.”

“Coulda used some of that nice, smelly stuff when I was in the joint,” Yo-Yo complained good-naturedly.

“You could use some of it
now
.” Florida picked up one of Yo-Yo's hands across the table. “Look at your hands! So dry they gonna fall right off.”

Yo-Yo grimaced. “Can't help it. Gotta wash my hands practically ever' thirty minutes at the Bagel Bakery.”

“I'm glad you liked it,” I said to Becky. “Stu picked it out, but it was from all of us.”

A long, awkward silence yawned between us. Florida tapped. Not knowing what else to say, I asked about the early paroles. “Is it true?”

Becky shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. At least that's the rumor goin' around. They gotta do
somethin'
—this place is way over the population limit. Makes for trouble . . .” Her eyes shifted away from us. “A lot of trouble.”

“What about you?” Stu leaned forward again, as if interviewing a prospective client. “Could you get an early parole? Plead hardship! You've got a toddler who needs his mother.”

“ 'Fore he
forgets
you're his mama,” Florida muttered under her breath.

“Me?” Becky snorted. “Ain't nobody likely to give
me
early parole—not with a violent conviction.” She wagged her head slowly. “Stupid. So stupid . . .”

Yo-Yo spoke up. “Tell us about your little boy. Andy—ain't that his name? How old is he?”

Whether or not Yo-Yo intended to pull the conversation out of its downward spiral, it worked. Becky lifted her eyes. “Andy? Yeah, he's two—named after his daddy. Got a head full o' black curls, big brown eyes. His daddy's black. Don't know what he saw in me, but we sure did make a pretty baby.” She laughed, but without real mirth. “Big Andy and I was together for a couple of years—thought we might get married when lil' Andy was born, but”—she shrugged—“didn't happen. An' then the drugs got bad—real bad.”

“Do you have a picture?” Yo-Yo seemed genuinely interested.

“Nah. Wish I did. By the time I got busted, I was zoned out.” Her shoulders sagged. “Cain't blame nobody but myself. Somebody else raisin' him now. Just wish . . . just wish I could talk ta him now 'n then, so he don't forgit me.”

“That much is going to happen,” Stu said firmly. “If I have to stand by the phone myself.”

MY STOMACH WAS GROWLING by the time we collected our stuff and drove out of the prison parking lot. “At least we get to leave,” I murmured, heading into the town of Lincoln and the closest food. “Can't imagine being locked in there for
years
.”

Stu and I voted for Subway, but Florida and Yo-Yo saw a sign for Hardee's Big Burgers. So Yo-Yo flipped a nickel and the sub sandwiches lost. “Don't take it so hard, Jodi,” Yo-Yo snickered. “You won't die from fast food just
once
.”

The food was actually tasty, and I was glad we opted to eat in rather than do the drive-through. It was a good time to debrief from our visit—easier to talk facing each other than lined up in the car talking to the windshield. “Funny what she said about wanting to work in the prison garden come spring,” I said, trying to keep all the fixin's inside my charbroiled chicken sandwich. “I mean, hard to imagine a hip-hop street person like Becky wanting to
grow
things.”

“I like her!” Yo-Yo announced. “I mean, she's workin' on her GED, workin' in the kitchen, readin' books—says somethin' about the lady.”

I smiled at
“the lady.”
Becky was probably all of two years older than Yo-Yo. But I agreed with her. Becky Wallace off drugs had a lot of drive—
hustle,
Florida called it—to make something of herself. She was even likable, which was an odd way to feel about the person who'd terrorized your family and friends only a few months earlier.

The wind was kicking up as we got back in the minivan with four coffees-to-go, and the clouds looked heavy, like a big belly about to pop. “Say a prayer, sisters,” I muttered. “I really don't want to drive in a snowstorm.”

I meant just sending up the silent kind, but Florida—who had taken over the front passenger seat—belted out, “Okay, Lord, You heard my sister here. She don't need ta be drivin' in no snowstorm today, 'cause we all wan-tin' to get home safe to our families. You're a big God, and we know this is nothin' for You. Just hold off on the snow, all right?”

Well, amen.
Sure hoped God didn't mind being bossed around by Florida. I pushed the speedometer up to the speed limit, more anxious about getting caught in a snowstorm than driving seventy. Stu and Yo-Yo were talking to themselves in the middle seat, so I told Florida that Avis had actually agreed to come to Sunday lunch at our house tomorrow—
with
Peter Douglass.

“You go, girl!
Somebody
gotta find out whassup with them two. Avis better hold on ta that man, all I can say. Hey—where's Yada Yada meeting tomorrow night?”

“Avis's apartment.” Stu answered from the middle seat.

“Odds gotta be somebody's birthday,” Yo-Yo added. “We got twelve women an' twelve months.When's your birthday, Stu?”

“March.”

“What about you, Florida?”

No answer. Florida was looking gloomily out the window. “Flo!”

“Awright! Next week. But . . .” She turned and glared at all of us. “Don't nobody go doing any birthday thing for
me.
I've had it up to
here
with birthdays for a while. Jus' let me pass this one by in peace.”

I glanced in my rearview mirror and caught Stu's eye.
Not likely.

“Hey, rest area,” Florida announced as a blue and white sign flew by. “Take a pit stop, Jodi. I've been good long enough. I really
do
need a cig.”

No snow so far, but the wind was bitter. I was glad to get back in the car and kept it running while Florida and Yo-Yo hunched up in their jackets and burned down a cigarette each. When they climbed back in, Yo-Yo said, “Did we
really
jump in Lake Michigan on New Year's Day? Glad it wasn't no day like today!”

I couldn't resist. “Speaking of getting wet in Lake Michigan . . .” I glanced over my shoulder at Yo-Yo. “Have you thought any more about baptism since the last time Yada Yada met?”

“Ha. Not till the weather warms up.”

That got a laugh from all of us. “But seriously, Yo-Yo,” I pressed.

“Huh. I dunno. Don't think I'm good enough yet.” She tapped the package of cigarettes tucked in the bib of her overalls. “Still smokin' these things, for starters.”

Florida twisted as far as her seat belt would let her. “What's that got ta do with it?”

I saw Yo-Yo shrug in the rearview mirror. “Well, you know, being holy an' all that—no offense, Florida. But, you know, goin' public . . . Pete an' Jerry gonna laugh their heads off, 'cause they know I'm no saint.”

“It's not about being a saint, Yo-Yo,” Stu said. “It's just a declaration that you want to be a Christian.”

“You been baptized?” Yo-Yo asked.

“Well, yeah—when I was a baby.”

“A baby!” Yo-Yo sounded shocked. “They dunked you under when you was a
baby
—with no say-so about it? What if you drowned?”

Stu laughed. “Not ‘dunked.' In my church they baptized babies by sprinkling them.”

“Get outta here!”

I was just as surprised as Yo-Yo—not that some churches baptized babies, but that Stu said “in my church.” What church was
that
? In the nine months since Stu had introduced herself in that first prayer group at the women's conference, I had never heard her talk about “her church.”

Her family either.

19

A
manda was so high when we picked her up on the way through the city—at the Enriquezes' house in Little Village, not at Edesa's—that she babbled nonstop all the way home. “You should
see
the dress Edesa is making me, Mom! The skirt has all these layers that flounce and sway, kinda white but it shimmers pale blue—and the dance Jose taught me is
so
much fun! The guys are gonna wear white dress shirts and black pants—does Pete have a white shirt, Yo-Yo? . . . Florida! I haven't asked Chris yet if he'd be one of my
chambelanes
—an escort, ya know. Do you think he'd be too embarrassed? I know he's a good dancer—he'd pick up the traditional waltz in a minute . . .”

I did manage to squeeze in a question, like exactly how many
chambelanes
did she plan on having? And didn't that mean she had to have a corresponding number of female attendants?

“Of
course,
Mom! I've already asked Edesa and Emerald—you know, kinda like my big and little sisters—to be my
damas.
And I'll probably ask Patti Sanders—hope she won't get all weirded out. So that'd make it even if I have José and Josh and Pete and Chris . . .”

Even? Unless my math skills had digressed, that made four guys and three girls . . .
Oh, I get it. One of those chambelánes
is going to be the Numero Uno escort for Amanda.
And it didn't take an Einstein to figure out who.

When we dropped off Florida, she leaned over and patted my knee. “Good luck, Jodi. You gonna need it.” She grinned big. “But we got your back. I'm cookin', remember?”

By the time I dropped off Stu and Amanda and drove Yo-Yo home to Lincolnwood, it was five o'clock when I finally made it to the Rogers Park Fruit Market—the first pit stop in my quest for groceries. “You are late today, Mrs. Jodi!” hailed the Greek owner, who seemed to know all his customers by name.

“Hi, Nick. Got any good buys on meat today?”

“Got any?” He clutched his heart dramatically. “We have the best meat prices in Chicago
every
day. Go, go, see for yourself.” He waved me away. “Hello,Mr. Baptiste! How is your mama today?”